


The Fires Of Mount Doom

by kalypsobean



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Altered Mental States, Depression, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-03-01 10:29:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2769725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalypsobean/pseuds/kalypsobean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He still dreams of the fire, even when they've made it home and Sam has cleaned all the weeds from beneath the window.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fires Of Mount Doom

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be an exchange fic but it didn't work out to neatly fit the request, so, um, Happy Holidays, everyone have a fic.

The pain quickly passes, almost as if, by the mercy of the Valar, he can no longer feel anything at all. It would be but a natural progression, for he has lost so much and when he reaches for a memory there is only fog and the Eye ever burning, the memory of pain receding as he chases for something to hold onto, anything that Sam said he should know as well as he knew himself, though even that, he fears, eludes him.

 

He screams because he does not know what else to do as sensation comes back, though not the agony of a missing piece or the dizziness from loss of blood, both things he does know for he has felt them every day since Weathertop, edging out the taste of rain and the relief of stepping into the shade on a hot day. The fire laps at his skin, the heat surrounding him almost as if it were a cocoon, inviting in its warmth and safety. He could give into it; he could fall, let it take him towards that oblivion and the only peace left for him this side of the Sea. He wants to, as much as he knows what want is, devoid of the whispering and cajoling of the voice in his mind and the weight on his chest. There would be darkness there, and he would have none of the cajoling and cosseting that he saw Bilbo avoid until he himself sought a way out with the Elves. 

It's a good solution, though the thunder drowns out his voice and the world itself begins to shake just as he decides to let go.

"Take my hand, Mr Frodo!" 

It is Sam. Sam would be lost without him, as much as Frodo has said otherwise in preparing Sam to let him go. Sam's whole existence is wrapped up in him; it would be Sam who chased Lobelia out of Bag-End because he couldn't bear anyone but Frodo to live there, Sam who would face the ridicule and gossip at the Green Dragon, Sam who would tell Merry and Pippin, if they still lived, that Frodo had chosen to let go.

He reaches up, he covers Sam's hand in his blood, and he lets himself be pulled away from the fire.

 

He doesn't have time to think as Sam's arm around his shoulders anchors him to the rock, even as it splits and falls behind them (he has run like this before, chased by arrows, it was Aragorn who kept him from falling, so long ago). It is only when the air changes, suddenly cooling and blessedly free of smoke, when he coughs and his knees give out, that he feels he has changed. Like he is lying down, finally off his feet after a day of running around and evening at the Dragon, he feels weightless with the lack of strain on his body, though his throat remains dry and his eyes water terribly. He can almost smell something wet and cool, like grass after a summer's rain, though the moisture he feels is sweat and tears mixing with dirt and blood, both his and Sam's.

"Rest now, Mr Frodo, it's done," Sam says, but Frodo only hears him vaguely, through a curtain of mist gradually lifting. He wants to tell Sam, but it's too much and, even if the words would come out in the right order, his throat is so dry and he's so tired.

He falls asleep with his head on Sam's shoulder, though he knows he only slept but a few hours before, because he knows Sam will keep them safe.

He can trust Sam like that, always has.

He knows he is dreaming in some logical part of his mind, but it feels like flying, being held safe and free, the Ring's detritus slowly being burned away and dripping, viscous and black, to the ground.

 

He wakes up in a white room with walls of trees, where Gandalf sits on the bed and calmly announces the date while pressing on his chest and then his head (it is also not the first time, and for a moment he wonders how long he was dreaming). 

"We thought we had lost you," Gandalf says, and Frodo has nothing to say. Sam is not there, and his four fingered hand reaches for nothing but air. He can hear birds, singing songs even the old Gaffer wouldn't know, and there are people outside, talking and moving. "It's all over now, you'll be off home soon I expect, but not too soon."

"Sam?" Frodo makes himself say it, though by the time he arranges everything in his head and swallows, Gandalf has already turned away. His hand is lifted and Gandalf's fingers press on his palm, sending a warm spark to his ring finger, where it was.

"He'll be along soon." Frodo thinks that is softness in Gandalf's voice, though he doesn't know for sure, and from the looks of things there is quite a lot he has missed, things that are important enough that he should be asking about them instead. 

"He had to be treated too, but now that you're on the mend you may share a room." Frodo turns his head away from the woman in the doorway, and her footsteps echo down the hall. 

 

Sam comes once Gandalf has left, and Frodo has received visits from everyone and half the kingdom of Gondor. Sam looks pasty white, his absent tan leaving his skin looking as pale as the clothes they've dressed him in, and Frodo feels the emptiness coming back. He's so tired, after all day, and everything; he's taken so much from Sam that he's left nothing but this shell, just like he drank all the water and left barely enough lembas for a tween. 

But Sam is there, still solid and real, his hands still worn and rough as they brush against Frodo's arm. There's a hint of a breeze as Sam lifts the blanket and clambers into the bed.  
"I'm here, Mr Frodo." Sam says.

And though he finally gets what Bilbo was talking about, all those years ago, Frodo finds it in himself to smile, for Sam, and he doesn't pull away when Sam curls around him and guides him down to sleep.

 

He still dreams of the fire, even when they've made it home and Sam has cleaned all the weeds from beneath the window and found enough magic to bring the garden back to life. It's an ever-present thing that burns away anything he doesn't hold on to, that is, that isn't Sam and the book and the odd feeling of being left out. The anniversaries are the worst, the ones that just he and Sam know about; Sam brings him a flower, a herb, half a pork leg, a wheel of cheese, but it's not the same. He can appreciate it; he grates the cheese over a fresh loaf of bread, he spices a side of beef, but he can't savour it, the way Sam does.

Then, all too soon, his part in the book is finished, and he's sailing before he really understands that he's been too tired to rest, that it was only Sam who could never let go.

 

The feeling of being drained, of being still because there is no strength to move, does not go away immediately on his arrival in Aman, nor after sleeping in the smial prepared just to his liking. It fades as gradually and as quietly as it had come on, and he barely marks its passing. Rarely, even, does he dream of the Shire, though he can recall it instantly when he wishes, and with an understated joy in the knowledge that it exists, though outside his reach.


End file.
